A Practical Guide for the Courtship of Elves, by Beren son of Barahir
by Nerdy Nell
Summary: Beren finds himself volunteered to share seasoned advice on "successfully" navigating the world of elvish-mortal relationships (if he can manage not to be interrupted).
1. Introduction

A/N: These wonderful characters are all the property of J. R. R. Tolkien.

This story is listed as a LotR/Silmarillion crossover, but the material and references are also drawn from _Unfinished Tales_, _Morgoth's Ring_, _The Lay of Leithian_, and _The Children of Hurin_ . . . and I think I can probably work in a _Hobbit_ reference or two. ;) As always, thanks for your reviews and constructive criticism!

* * *

I had really hoped to stay out of this.

There are a few among us who still like to keep an eye on Arda, even if they have given up their places in it. Nothing wrong with that, but I do sometimes wish they'd keep the news to themselves. I had enough horror while I was there. As for this inter-net, this world-wide-web, I was happy enough when I believed it had something to do with giant spiders and was therefore Thranduil's problem. Indeed, it turned out to be Thranduil's problem, but it became mine.

He appeared one day with an expression as black as Morgoth's hands, raging about "Legolas" and "mortal stories" and "depravity"; and it was a long time before he could calm himself enough to explain. How Thranduil got his hands on any of these unfortunate tales is a mystery (although Olorin guesses he must have heard Nienna mourning about them); but he didn't hesitate to inform Elrond, Glorfindel, Haldir, and a few others that if they looked upon the writings, they would soon be (almost) as wrathful as himself. Galadriel cautioned them against it, but they were too curious.

Therefore it came to pass that, after a few hours of vengeful target practice and the wholesale slaughter of innocent hay-bales (which greatly annoyed the Rohirrim), there was a council of-well, not war, but you would never know it. And Thranduil swore by all the leaves of Eryn Lasgalen that if the word fan-fiction ever came to his son's ears, he would imprison us forever in barrels that smelt of apples. And Elrond added quietly that if the word was so much as breathed in the presence of _his_ sons, he would have us all cast into the Bruinen, where beautiful water-horses would trample upon our faces. And finally Olorin said "Enough! Is it not clear that something must be written to counter this madness?"

"But who is the writer to be? And what are they to write? That's what this Council has to decide, and all it has to decide!" said a voice from somewhere around our knees. Bilbo had been making notes, as usual. "And if you think I'm volunteering this time, you're mad," he muttered.

The shadow of doom fell upon my heart as soon as they decided that the writing needed to come from "a mortal perspective." And it only grew darker when Erestor pointed out that the author should be "someone who has won the heart of an Elf."

Well, the excuses began flying thicker than snowflakes on Caradhras. Aragorn was going to be "striding" somewhere (he would only say that it was very far away). Tuor had to attend a meeting of the Society for the Differentiation of Characters with Frustratingly Similar Names (whose officers included Fingolfin, Finarfin, Fingon, Finrod, Huor, Hurin, and most of Thorin's Company). Andreth was silent, but nobody had the heart to ask her. And Turin . . . well, Turin can write romance about as easily as he can stick to one name.

Then Luthien smiled at me and said, "Who could do better than Beren?" And all was lost. I always intend to speak to her about that smile, because it gives her an unfair advantage; but I always forget until it's too late.

"Indeed, I admit I had Beren in mind," said Olorin, giving me his inscrutable stare. "After all, if elvish romance is what these mortals are seeking, he could certainly explain what is involved."

"But, my lord," I said, "all I know is that Luthien and I were destined for one another; her father declared we could not marry unless I brought him a Silmaril from the Iron Crown of Morgoth; after great perils, we managed to steal the Silmaril, but it was lost; I died hunting the wolf who devoured it; Luthien died of grief and brought both of us back from the dead; and finally, we lived for a short time together and then died again."

"Exactly." And suddenly there was a twinkle in Olorin's eyes. "If _that_ doesn't discourage people, nothing will."

So here I am.

Since I have been instructed to write what I know, the following is a guide for those who wish to learn elvish courtship for their own sake or the sake of their fictional characters. Should you find that any of this advice seems contradictory, impossible, or nonsensical, return to Step One. If anything is too difficult to understand, save yourself the trouble and return to Step One. If all else fails, return to Step One. I can say nothing of greater wisdom in this guide.

Legolas has just arrived, looking startled. I had best relocate for the present, in case Thranduil is about.


	2. Step One: Don't Try

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, everyone! I was beyond pleased-thrilled, really-to see that you're enjoying the story. Neshomeh, I was a little worried that the mix of tones would be jarring, so it's great to know that they worked for you!

* * *

Well, it was a false alarm. Legolas looked startled because someone replaced all his spare bowstrings with piano wires; and Lindir, the only pianist among us, is nowhere to be found. Then Gimli remarked that Legolas' bowstrings might as well make music, since they did no good otherwise; and in the midst of the ensuing tumult, I escaped to discuss Step One. The first thing to keep in mind when you wish to court an elf is this:

Don't Try

This is also the step most certain to be ignored, because elves do hold a certain fascination for us poor mortals.

I would attempt to convince you that elves at close range are really quite unattractive; but that would be a lie, and also, Finrod keeps trying to look over my shoulder.

And then I thought to tell you that the dignity, wisdom, and otherworldliness of elves is so overpowering that you would no sooner fall in love with them than with your own grandparents. This is closer to the truth; but I doubt it would stop any determined person. As Galadriel once observed, there is nothing in Arda or out of it that humans will not imagine themselves in love with. And she did not volunteer any details; and I did not wish for any.

Truth be told, elvish beauty is only part of their allure. For example, running through all my memories of Luthien is the impression of deep joy-a joy in the life of the world that bubbled over in all she did, like a fountain from an underground spring.

For elves may be old, but the world is never old to them. Their delight in it is so great that, in their presence, it is easy to forget you have ever learned sorrow. _The Lay of Leithian_ goes so far as to say that Luthien persuaded me to dance with her-and no, Finrod, I will not confirm that, so it's no use looking. Nothing you read or hear will ever quite prepare you for elves as they truly are.

And still I say that you should not try. Here are several good reasons for you to completely disregard:

1. You're too late

The good news is that the majority of elves will marry. The bad news is that they usually marry young. When you meet an elf, you should assume that, not only is he married, but also that he has been married since before your surname was invented.

2. You're going to die

Elves call death "the gift of Iluvatar" without a hint of irony-although if you listen as they lament the "burden of the years" and the "inevitable fading," sarcastic comments will start to burn the inside of your mouth.

Now, since elves generally marry for love and almost never remarry, it would be extremely painful for them to lose a spouse after so short a time as an ordinary human lifespan.

Not only that, but elvish memories are rather different from ours. They have a talent for remembrance, and memory becomes ever more a part of their lives as time goes on. When there are painful memories, they must be endured as long as the world lasts. So, as Finrod explained to my aunt Andreth, elves prefer to have memories "fair but unfinished" rather than continuing "to a grievous end."

In short, you will spare your elf a great deal of grief if you let him alone.

But you've probably chosen to circumvent this problem by becoming immortal, which brings me to my next point:

3. You can't become immortal

It amazes me how people seem to think Iluvatar distilled immortality into a sort of potion and then left it lying about in vials, or some such nonsense. He also does not distribute it willy-nilly as a reward for good behavior or offer it as an option for the exceptionally good-looking.

No, the only way you can choose to be immortal is to be half-elven in the first place. Or, if your name is Tuor son of Huor, you might be counted among the Eldar because after you've been given everything else, why not have that, too . . . I mean, as a special boon. It should be noted that this is an EXCEPTION and NOT TO BE REPEATED.

And if you are imagining that elves can simply throw away their immortality like a pair of old shoes, I must tell you . . .

4. Elves can't become mortal

Owing to certain visions from the Palantir of Cinema (doubtless you understand it better than I do), you may be under the misapprehension that elves keep immortality in pendants around their necks, which they can bequeath to anyone who catches their fancy.

The truth is that Arwen Undomiel was permitted to take up the life of men because of her human heritage. And Luthien was permitted to choose mortality, again because of a special boon-and because she was half-Maia-and because of her deeds against Morgoth-and because of her great sorrow. If you want to call that a _reward_, I cannot stop you; but at any rate THIS WAS ALSO AN EXCEPTION. An elf couldn't give up his own nature for you, even if he wanted to. But he wouldn't want to-which brings us to our last and most fundamental obstacle:

5. Elves believe that there is an insurmountable gulf between us

Whether elves think themselves superior or whether they simply wish to avoid the pain of loss (or both), their attitude towards marriage with humans was neatly summarized by Finrod in this way:

"[I]f any marriage can be between our kindred and thine, then it shall be for some high purpose of Doom. Brief it will be and hard at the end. Yea, the least cruel fate that could befall would be that death should soon end it."

I might add that no amount of beauty, wit, charm, intelligence, courage, swordsmanship, vocal skills, personal tragedy, physical injury, emotional trauma, magical powers, exotic pets, unnaturally-tinted hair, or anything else on your part is going to overcome that.

You see, while they can and do fall in love, elves are much less at the mercy of [here in the original text is an ink blot, followed by several crossed-out words] of [more ink blots] of-oh, by all the-[in another hand is written _their hormones?_]-yes, Ioreth, thank you-than we are. Therefore, they are not so easily swept into irrational decisions.

[Here the second hand continues, _You are most welcome, my lord, and think nothing of it indeed; for though there is no illness here, I have often thought it would do no harm to learn the lore of healing as it is now practiced in Arda. And so, some time ago, I consulted the herb-master of Minas Tirith and said to him, "My friend, why should we not learn the new arts of healing, and the new names of things?" And he said to me, "Your words hold great wisdom, Ioreth, and indeed I have already begun collecting many works of lore. And among them is this Medical Dictionary, in which you may learn all manner of names if you wish." So I took it and read it all, and found it most instructive; and then I went to all the healers, advising them to read it as well. And they all agreed that it would be a wise thing to compare and compile lists of names, so you must not fail to consult me if you find yourself again searching for one._ ]

Your knowledge is a great gift, Ioreth, and I am sure that . . . men will long remember your words.

(Incidentally, if you didn't know, elves do not suffer from nearsightedness. This is how I have deduced that Erestor is only pretending to read so he can hide his smirking.)

Anyway, in summary, an elf may like you. An elf may befriend you. An elf may mourn you when you are deceased. But he won't fall in love with you. Don't try to make him.

However, there would be few stories if everyone listened to good advice . . .


	3. Digression: Concerning Legolas

Author's Commentary: I never intended to write this at all. The idea just appeared in my mind, and then I kept on adding to it. It's frightfully early for a digression, but I hope you will not mind if I post this to tide you over until Step Two.

(The views expressed by the characters are not necessarily those of Nerdy Nell or her non-existent affiliates or associates. Poor Legolas. He can't catch a break- not ever.)

* * *

The more Thranduil rages and seethes (very quietly) about this fan-fiction business, the more we look at each other and say, "They're in love with Legolas? _Our Legolas_?" A few people were so mystified that they wished to voice their concerns, as follows.

The Legolas-Objectors' Autograph Page

When I said I was sending Legolas "for the elves," what I meant was "as a courtesy for the elves of Mirkwood." The poor souls couldn't resist such a golden opportunity to get rid of him, and practically begged me to send him along.

-Elrond Peredhel

It's funny how people think elves are great hunters and trackers. And I guess most of them are; but if it had been left up to Legolas, he and Strider and Gimli would probably still be wandering all around the outskirts of Fangorn, wondering what had happened to Merry and me.

-Pippin Took

I don't like to speak against any of the Fellowship, but sometimes I do wish Legolas and his friends hadn't let that Gollum escape. It would have saved Mr. Frodo a lot of trouble. As far as courtship goes, I once heard Legolas call a girl sweet, but she was a stream.

-Samwise Gamgee

When Legolas can't translate something, he will shake his head and say that he has not the heart to tell you, because the grief is still too near. It's exactly what he did when I showed him a Gondorian stop sign.

-Frodo B.

Legolas has only ever been in love with trees-until he fell in love with the sea. We elves can listen to the sound of leaves in the wind for hours, and even _we_ think he's a little odd.

-Elrohir son of Elrond

You might have read that only Legolas and Aragorn could long endure my gaze when I tested the Fellowship in Lothlorien. I did find it difficult to make a trial of Legolas because we were standing in a tree at the time: he already had everything he wanted.

-I remain,

Galadriel

The worst judgment I can make of anyone is that they don't like pipe-weed. Legolas disapproves of pipe-weed.

-Meriadoc Brandybuck

Have you not learned that all things are changed and confused in the Palantir of Cinema? Legolas is no exception. His eyes aren't even blue! They're [ink blot]

-Elladan son of Elrond

I have never found fault with Legolas, except when he nearly killed us all by threatening Eomer on the Plains of Rohan. Of all times to lose composure.

-Aragorn son of Arathorn

If you're up to your waist in snow, trying to forge a path through it with nothing but your arms, Legolas will make some poetic remark about the absence of the sun and helpfully inform you (from over the top of your trench) that there is only a little wall of snow left to clear. Then he will smile and watch bemusedly as you struggle on. I don't see why he couldn't have carried a shovel in that quiver of his.

-Boromir of Gondor

Who could forget the mess that elf caused when he and Gimli arrived in Minas Tirith? I've no idea what he believed he was about; but if he couldn't have thought to hide his face, at least he didn't have to go singing through the streets. All the maidens were craning their necks to look at him until they fell out of the windows; and all the nurses in the Houses of Healing left their poor patients and disturbed the sick with their giggling. He may have been brave on the battlefield, but he was utterly useless in a broken-down city. The _king_ was the one with healing hands, after all, as I mentioned to-

I have it on good authority that when Legolas met the Balrog, he did nothing but wail and dash towards the bridge of Khazad-Dum. When _I_ met a Balrog, I slew it. And then I came back from the dead.

-Glorfindel of Gondolin (and Imladris, because I came back from the dead)

Well, I prepared a long list of insulting things to say about the elf, but you folk have almost made me pity him. For an elf, he isn't so bad. He will go bravely into places he isn't afraid of. He can shoot a fell beast in the dark, if it's big enough to blot out the moon. He has good taste in friends.

He is good at keeping count in the heat of battle-he just can't count to forty-two. Ahem.

-Gimli son of Gloin

Much as I . . . appreciate the sentiment behind these . . . statements, I refuse to believe our only solution is to defame my son's character. I am sure if I could force myself to read them, I would find nothing but half-truths and twisted facts, if not outright lies.

What is absolutely true is that if you so much as set your shameful feet inside the borders of Eryn Lasgalen, my people will lead you on a merry dance until you are hopelessly lost. Then you will starve in the darkness, and it will be a relief when the giant spiders come to eat you.

And, as for the rest of you, I have not forgotten what I said about the barrels.

-Thranduil


	4. Step Two: Doom Yourself

One of the irritating - I mean fascinating truths of Middle-earth is that there are always exceptions. Nobody could entirely resist the One Ring except Tom Bombadil. Nobody could ride Shadowfax except the Lord of the Mark . . . until Olorin appeared, after which nobody could ride Shadowfax except Olorin. No mariner could find the Blessed Realm except Earendil. Nobody can eat an entire fruitcake and then dance the Springle-ring except Pippin.

As I have explained, mortals and elves do not marry . . . except for some high purpose of doom. Being an exception myself, I understand how difficult it is. At best, everyone looks at you with skepticism; at worst, elf-lords are after your blood.

Possibly, there are some exceptions among my readers even now. Perhaps there are a few half-elves who have fallen off the family trees. Or perhaps there is another high purpose of doom which has yet to be fulfilled. In that case, far be it from me to discourage them . . .

. . . but not that far.

Step Two: Doom Yourself

Doom is helpful in two ways. First, you may find it is part of your great and glorious doom to win the love of an elf; second, even if elvish romance is not specifically involved, nothing is better than doom for making an impression - - and, as we shall see, making an impression is crucial. For example, Aragorn's doom caused people to see things like crowns and flames and kings with grim faces when they looked at him. Doom also provides a comfortable sense of inevitability, like being pulled into an undertow.

Elrond, who has a gift for knowing things nobody has told him, advises me to say _fate_ instead of _doom_; he thinks the connotation of _doom_ will give you an unnecessarily dark idea of it. So I inquired whether he thought it was the fate of his sons to wed warlike maidens with color-changing eyes; and he reconsidered. Besides, both of us know that doom is not as fun as it sounds. Attempting to manipulate it is utter madness - - consider the story of Turin son of Hurin, "Master of Doom."

As _fate_ would have it, Elrond mentioned our conversation to Elros, who mentioned it to Earendil, who mentioned it to Tuor, who mentioned it to Turgon, who mentioned it to Hurin, who mentioned it to Turin, who stalked past and discovered me in Olorin's old cart, where I had gone for the express purpose of hiding from him as I wrote.

"I didn't know you were a sadist," he said.

"What in Arda is that? Have you been listening to Galadriel's lectures on mortal psychology?"

"You are counseling mortals to tempt doom," he hissed, gripping the sides of the cart. To my alarm, a Look had appeared on his face. Turin has only a few Looks, but each of them is memorable and famous in its own right. "Are you cruel, or stricken with madness? What counsel could be better than to fall as soon as possible upon your own sword? Am I not the Master of Doom? Would I not know?" Then he smiled, which was ten times worse. The last time he smiled was the night Sam made mashed potatoes, which had to be thrown out because nobody was hungry after that - - not even the hobbits.

"Turin, I had no intention of causing you . . . grief . . ."

"Do you have any idea what it's like?" he whispered. "Did you know that the Debating Limb of the Obscure Questions Branch of the Entmoot has been discussing 'What Turin Could Have Done (if Anything) to Escape His Doom' since its meeting began? Did you know they have sought Gwindor and Beleg as witnesses? Did you know they've considered 1,679 possibilities, all of which have proved futile, with no end in sight?"

"Of course there's no end in sight. Did you expect otherwise?" I said. (The re-formed Entmoot held its first meeting fifteen years ago, and has recently adjourned for coffee.) "Here, Turin, take this pile of . . . er . . . stories. Perhaps you will understand when you have read them."

"Not Turin. Today I am Neithan, the Wronged," he answered, with another Look.

"Then take them, Neithan the Wronged - but for the love of all mercy, don't let Legolas see."

"You do realize to whom you are speaking? _Turin turambar turun ambartanen_, remember?"

"Don't let _anyone_ see!"

(Morgoth also gave himself the title "Master of the Fates of Arda." So bear in mind that, if you dare to attempt this, you will be in the company of the most unfortunate man who ever lived, and a fallen spirit of pure evil. See step one.)

Now, doom is usually a gift - - like death or the color of one's hair. Why certain dooms are given to certain people is a mystery known only to those who will not reveal it, such as Olorin.

"Simply say it is the will of the Valar," said Olorin, when I asked him how to explain that you are not going to explain.

"Does that not seem too easy?"

"Very well, then give the implication of your vast knowledge, balanced by the unspeakable danger of divulging too much, and throw in a few vague, mildly encouraging truths. Try something like 'even the wise cannot see all ends.' Then ride away on an urgent errand."

"And you got away with this?"

Olorin smiled. "I enraged generations of men, elves, dwarves, and hobbits - - not to mention kings, stewards, and a treacherous wizard. Of course I got away with it." He puffed at his pipe, still smiling. "I am Gandalf, after all, and Gandalf means _me_."

But I am only Beren son of Barahir, and I cannot explain.

Those not fortunate enough to be born with a doom will have to bring it upon themselves through one of the following means:

1. Annoy the Dark Lord

This is by far the best method, since you will not only be fighting evil, but you will also be turning into the haunted, grim-faced, fell-eyed vagabond that (according to Tuor) elves cannot resist. You can hardly make a better impression. Simply find some servants of the Dark Lord-or, better yet, the Dark Lord himself-and let the irritation begin.

Aragorn, Turin, and I have found killing large numbers of orcs to be effective, though a bit monotonous and time-consuming. It is also somewhat lacking in creativity, though if you are captured, you may have an opportunity to defy the Dark Lord in person. Hurin did this so well that he doomed himself and his entire family.

Or you could always steal the Dark Lord's most precious treasure from under his very nose. I do have something of an affection for that strategy.

2. Annoy the Valar

Perhaps I _am_ a sadist, whatever that means. This idea will be of no use at all unless you wish to court one of the sons of Feanor; but in that case, you deserve what is coming to you. Or, if you desire to share doom and exile with one of the Noldor, remember that not even romance can blossom in the Grinding Ice.

3. Entangle Yourself in Someone (or Something) Else's Doom

Do you see a haunted, grim-faced person with a doom of his own? Never let him out of your sight, and hunt for him if he is lost. Swear an oath to come to his aid whenever he needs it.

Do you see a shimmering, radiant object, mystical and terrible and coveted by all? Steal it. Lock it away. Swear to find it. Swear to never let anyone _else_ find it. Thingol did this so well that he doomed himself and his entire realm.

And finally, simplest of all . . .

4. Swear a Dreadful Oath

There is much scope for creativity here - - both on your part and on the part of doom itself. For any resolve can be dreadful, provided you will pay any price for it; and it is always amusing to see how doom awakes even the most obscure promises.

So swear to find your socks, and you will discover them in Mordor. Swear not to eat cheese, and all the world will be in peril unless you do. The important thing is to be as absolute as possible. If you lack inspiration, simply borrow the oath of Feanor and his sons, and be sure to call down uttermost darkness upon yourself if you fail.

And when you sense something like a second conscience within your soul - - when the future is as certain to you as memory - - when you feel yourself, little by little, being woven in a web of unseen pattern by unseen fingers - - congratulations. You are doomed.

And I must be doomed to madness, it seems, for my ears are now telling me that they can hear Turin son of Hurin from where he sits in the shadows . . . _laughing_.


	5. Step Three: Mesmerize

Thank you all again for the encouraging reviews!

* * *

You would suppose, given their wisdom, experience, and immortality, elves would not rashly give their hearts, and certainly never fall in love instantaneously. Why would they, when they have all the life of Arda in which to choose?

But sometimes they do.

Finwe did when he heard Indis singing against a background of golden light. Arwen did when she saw Aragorn striding toward her with his hands full of flowers. Thingol did when he beheld Melian in a glade lit by Elbereth's stars. And Luthien saw me crashing through the forests of Doriath like a deranged Mumak and fled in terror.

Alas, I shall be forced to discuss our first meeting in a moment. Suffice it to say that this sudden flash of insight upon an elf's consciousnesses as he catches sight of you may be the only thing able to overcome his reluctance about falling in love with a mortal.

During one of our arguments, I once asked Thingol to explain this phenomenon. (For, even though Thingol and I made up our quarrel after the Quest of the Silmaril, we often discovered that there is nothing better after dinner than a good argument. The Queen permitted it as long as we did not frighten away her birds; and Luthien permitted it as long as our voices did not drown out the minstrels.) According to Thingol, instantaneous love must simply be one of the manifestations of doom, which initiates the union of two people for a specific purpose.

"What name would you give this manifestation, then?" I asked.

"I would name it love. What else?"

"I might call it enchantment," I said. "Such was my fate when I looked upon Luthien."

"You were enchanted indeed," said Thingol, "for Luthien enchants all who look upon her. I do not say it is the same for Men. Doubtless, in such cases, they are overwhelmed by emotion and mistake it for love, being deceived. But elves, who easily discern the nature of one another, and who are close to the will of the Valar, may fall in love without falling into foolishness."

"When you fell in love with Queen Melian, then, you were not under an enchantment? You loved her truly, though she was a stranger to you?"

"I had never seen her, it is true; but I knew all I needed to know."

"What did you know?"

"That I loved her."

"And she instantly loved you?"

"Of course. Being of divine race, she knew me better than I know myself. And she perceived I was among the first elves, those who awoke at Cuivienen, and that I was a lord of my people."

"Then why," I said, "did she put you into a trance until the encircling trees grew tall? How long did she compel you to stay there, neither speaking nor moving? Decades? A hundred years?"

"How - -" Thingol began; but at that moment, the voice of Luthien pierced through the hall like silver rain, silencing us both. I always intend to speak to her about the singing because it gives her an unfair advantage.

Thingol might name it love, but this task has been appointed to me, and I prefer the word _mesmerization_. This is because, in the examples we have mentioned, the elf's entire attention was captured in a significant moment - - a moment influenced by the deeds and appearance of another.

I do not mean to suggest you can _cause _such a moment. You must wait patiently for the fulfillment of doom. However, it does no harm to give doom as many opportunities as you can.

Step Three: Mesmerize

1. Try to look as much as possible like an elf . . .

(See Step One.)

Very well, I suppose I should explain. No doubt this will evoke great protestations and accusations of injustice. But, if _we_ are to be just, bear in mind the elvish attraction to beautiful things; and also remember, with the exceptions of the Maiar and Valar, elves have never seen any creatures more beautiful than themselves. I will only add that an elvish resemblance did nothing to harm the prospects of Aragorn, Turin, and Tuor.

Still, I include this idea with great anxiety, lest it inspire you to procure some horrible pointed contraptions and glue them on top of your ears. What the elves' reaction to that sight would be, I hardly dare imagine. They might assume you to be a foul hybrid of Saruman's creation; you would certainly have to be slain, but they would pity you.

Unfortunately, appearing elvish requires supernatural aid. For only Iluvatar can grant you devastatingly good looks. Only the Valar (or your doom) can enshroud you in mist, make your stature suddenly seem to increase, and cause your cloak to fall away at precisely the right moment, revealing your elvish armor. And only the elves can give you elvish armor - - or ordinary elvish raiment, which may do just as well. There is a good chance - - if it is a gift from Lady Galadriel, a nigh-inescapable chance - - that the raiment will be white; so take care not to eat or drink or ride a horse or walk in the mud or fall in the grass or climb a tree or move about in general while you are wearing it.

There was, perhaps, only one mortal man of such overwhelming handsomeness that he needed nothing else. But he had no advice for me.

"I look like an elf because my mother did," said Turin. "She was Eledhwen, Elfsheen, so I was Adanedhel, the Elf-man. Are there no other stories? Where did these come from?"

"I don't know - - some gigantic web of Ungoliant. Ask Thranduil. No, do not ask Thranduil. He has been in a more fell mood than ever since you started grinning all over the place. And everyone else hasn't been so scandalized since Galadriel wore _beige_ to the Mettare feast and nearly sent the Galadhrim into hysterics."

"Oh, I remember," said Turin, with a grin. "It took four elves to pry Haldir from the floor. But I do not fear Thranduil. I would face Ungoliant and all her webs for more of these. Have you seen the one which depicts Tirion upon Tuna as an elvish casserole?"

"I am trying to forget. Well, if it makes you happy, ask Olorin or Nienna. You're sure Legolas knows nothing?"

"It was not his doom to know," said Turin, "at least not from me, for I am Thurin, the Secret. And nothing makes me happy."

2. . . . or do something picturesque . . .

Notice how our mesmerizers, as though they had designed it by craft and cunning, chanced to be discovered against a striking background (e.g., golden light) while performing some charming task (e.g., singing). Indeed, the more I consider it, the more I wonder whether Aragorn did _not_ arrange the entire scene on Cerin Amroth, because I do not know why else he would be plucking flowers.

"Oh, he certainly arranged it," said Orophin, "but for a long time, his arrangements were all in vain. Who can tell how many poor flowers Aragorn sacrificed until he finally managed to capture Arwen at the right time and place?"

"You should have seen him preparing his strategy," said Rumil. "He would ask, very cleverly, 'I have heard it said that Cerin Amroth is even more beautiful than Caras Galadhon. Do the Lord and Lady often walk there? Does Lady Arwen?'"

"Or 'Do you suppose Lady Arwen prefers elanor or niphredil? I was musing upon the tale of Tinuviel and wondered, out of completely idle and impersonal curiosity, whether she might prefer niphredil for Tinuviel's sake,'" said Haldir, with a laugh. "And so secretive was he, lest Lady Galadriel find out, that soon all Lothlorien knew."

"That is entirely false," said Aragorn. "I had no wish to hide anything from Lady Galadriel."

"Then why did you turn white when she gazed at you and said 'Arwen prefers them both'?"

If you are now wondering how everyone so helpfully materialized in order to answer my question, it appears Finrod finally succeeded in reading over my shoulder - - and elves are wondrous folk for news.

They are also wondrous folk for singing; and if you cannot hope to impress them with your music (as you cannot), well, anyone can pick flowers.

3. . . . or at least comb your hair

If you have a doom, the elves may see you approaching from miles and years away. Thus did Earendil sail the uttermost seas and step upon the shores of the Blessed Realm, only to be greeted with, "Hail, Earendil, old boy, you spiffing fellow!"

(This is not at all what Eonwe said, but Isildur has cautioned me against being too archaic in my writing, and I am happy to oblige. Olorin claims he once knew every word of slang in the tongues of Men, Elves, and Orcs; but I was grateful when he sighed and said his memory is not what it used to be.)

As a result of their foresight, the elves might bar their realms to you and send you on a quest of certain death when you appear before them anyway. Or, if your name is Tuor son of Huor, the reclusive and austere elves of Gondolin will fall all over themselves, give you the hand of their princess, and do everything but strew flowers at your feet.

When I asked Tuor why we met with such different receptions, he said it was probably because he came into Gondolin as the son of Huor, companion of Voronwe, and messenger of Ulmo, arrayed in the shining armor of Turgon - - whereas I probably looked as though I had come to pilfer all the combs in Menegroth. And I cannot help but believe him.

It is now time to confess my catastrophic failure at mesmerization. I first beheld Luthien after passing through the Mountains of Terror and the Valley of Dreadful Death, which made Sauron's dungeons seem like the Last Homely House. By the end of that journey, I could scarcely remember my own name, much less give heed to my appearance. My hair had grown long and gray, adorned with twigs and cobwebs; my eyes were blinded even in the moonlight; and the sight of Luthien drove away my remaining sanity. I staggered after her, frightening poor Luthien out of her wits.

[Here another hand begins]

_Forgive me, beloved, but something told me you would discredit yourself, and I could not bear to see it. I _was_ afraid of you, it is true. But when we met again and you called to me, my fear vanished, for there was such love in your voice that I needed no shining armor or beautiful words. And after I learned of your dreadful journey, I knew you for a man of courage to match any elf's - - and only loved you more. _

_Also, though your hair was gray and full of cobwebs, it could not hide the light of your eyes, and they were beautiful. I thought you were beautiful then, and I have always thought so._

[Here the first hand resumes]

This is getting beyond reason. I go away for fifteen minutes to help Huan fill out his application for membership into the Society for the Differentiation of Characters with Frustratingly Similar Names, and . . .

Ah.

4. Pass through the Mountains of Terror and the Valley of Dreadful Death, taking care to emerge ragged, filthy, and at the brink of madness


	6. Step Four: Be Persistent

A/N: First of all, apologies for taking so long to update. On the positive side, those who enjoy dialogues and conversations will be pleased (I hope) to know that this is the second-lengthiest chapter, and it is almost _entirely_ . . . not dialogue, exactly . . . what comes after dialogue? Trialogue? Polylogue? There is a lot of polylogue here.

One of the reasons for the delay was my struggle with how to present the "stalking" issue. Stalking is not funny. The idea of _Beren_ as a stalker, though . . . well, I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions.

Thanks, as always, for the reviews.

* * *

"Ah," said Idril to Tuor, "now I understand why you were always clapping that silly helmet on your head whenever I walked past. You were trying to mesmerize me."

"_Silly_!?" cried Tuor and Turgon.

"That helmet was made at the command of Ulmo himself, I'll have you know," said Turgon, with a stern glance at his daughter.

"Yes, but _you_ designed it, and sometimes your taste runs a bit toward the . . . impractical. That helmet was too tall already, and the bedraggled swan feathers stuck into the crest made it completely ridiculous."

"But the swans gave me those feathers in token of my doom!" said Tuor. "It was just after I had received the armor - - a turning point in my career, as Bilbo said. It would have been discourteous not to accept them."

"I know, my dear. It was very momentous and very courteous - - and very ridiculous."

"So the emissary of Ulmo did not mesmerize you at first sight?" I said. "How surprising."

"Surprising? When I could not catch a glimpse of his face for months? And whenever I tried to speak with him, he would turn away and stare at the nearest fountain. I always wondered why, but now I perceive he must have been pretending to counsel with Ulmo."

"I did no such thing," said Tuor, whose face had turned red.

"Well, it does explain why you were whispering to your drinking cup," said Voronwe. "I could have told you it is difficult to hear Ulmo through silver."

"I was _not_ pretending to speak with Ulmo," said Tuor. "I was just - - I was trying - - I had not - - had not seen many women before I came to Gondolin, and certainly not one as fair as Idril. And so I was - - well - -"

"Shy," said Idril. "Yes. I felt the same way when you finally took the helmet off."

"So you fell in love with him because he stopped wearing the helmet?" I asked.

"Oh, no. I fell in love with him because Ulmo told me to."

"Idril . . ." said Tuor.

"Very well, I fell in love with him to escape Maeglin."

"Idril!"

"She fell in love with you so I would exist, of course," said Earendil. "And now, if anybody needs me, I shall be in the Outer Sea - - where it's quiet."

As the previous examples have taught us, mesmerization does not always occur at first sight. This is good news for you, because it means you may have more than one chance. And it is bad news for you, because it involves the exercise of Step Four . . .

Be Persistent

. . . but especially because, several Ages later, you may find yourself brought before Lady Galadriel's Mortal Psychology class, answering accusations of "stalking" - - or "guest lecturing," as they called it. It seems the students _somehow_ learned I was going to include this step and pleaded for the opportunity to discuss the effects of emotional trauma, prolonged exposure to deadly peril, and elvish enchantment upon a human psyche (whatever that means), and whether they might result in deviant behavior (whatever that means).

Mortal Psychology lectures are held in the Hall of Fire - - for wherever elves are, there is always some sort of Hall of Fire - - so there is plenty of space. I was not flattered to discover that nearly all the seats were taken.

(My gratitude to Bilbo and Frodo Baggins for their transcriptions, from which is drawn the following material.)

The Trial-ogue of Beren son of Barahir 

**Lady Galadriel**: Do not imagine you are on trial, Beren son of Barahir, even though I may appear to be judging your thoughts with my keen, unwavering gaze. The students would simply like to ask some questions about your motivation for pursuing Luthien.

**Beren son of Barahir**: _Are_ you judging my thoughts, my lady?

**LG**: Naturally.

**BsB**: Then can you not _see_ my motivation and tell the - - er - - students what it was?

**LG**: That would not be conducive to learning.

**Pippin Took** (whispering): She won't let us have open-book tests, either.

**Meriadoc Brandybuck** (also whispering): She won't even let us have a book.

**Gandalf the Gr - - I mean White**: Confound that racket! Peregrin Took, you wouldn't read a book if there was one.

**PT**: I would read Merry's book if this were a class about pipe-weed.

**BsB** (to LG): And you are certain this is not a trial? (pointed look toward the back of the class)

**Daeron the Minstrel** (from the back of the class): Don't look at _me_. I had no desire to hear this.

**BsB** (sighing): Very well. Who wished to ask a question?

**Turin Hurinion Neithan Mormegil Gorthol Adanedhel Turambar, etc**.: I do. While you were stalking Luthien, were you as creepy as the _Lay of Leithian_ implies?

**BsB**: Certainly not. Furthermore, what is _creepy_? What is _stalking_, for that matter?

**Erestor**: In this case, I should say, it means following someone who does not wish to be followed: hunting them, in a sense.

**BsB**: Just as Beleg stalked Turin, then?

**E**: Well . . .

**BsB**: Just as the host of Orome stalked Morgoth? As Fingolfin stalked Feanor after the burning of the ships?

**E**: That would not be quite parallel to . . .

**BsB**: Did Eowyn stalk the Rohirrim to Minas Tirith? What about Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn tracking the band of Orcs? "Forth the three stalkers"?

**Eomer Eadig**: They weren't very _successful _stalkers.

**Gimli**: We did have to sleep sometimes. Well, two of us did, and the third did nothing but whine about it.

**E**: Perhaps I should refine my definition. Tell me, my lady, whether I am not right in saying . . .

[Unfortunately, Erestor's definitions, classifications, and methods of stalking (which he went on to discuss at some length) have been lost due to the distraction of the transcribers, whose attention was drawn elsewhere.]

**PT**: Oh no. I hope he's not going to talk about the Cyber again. Could you make head or tail of that? I think it's some sort of monster, but I could never figure out whether it was _doing_ the stalking or _being_ stalked.

**MB**: I just remember Lady Galadriel saying it can be in two places at once. It can be sitting in its living room and stalking someone at the same time. I guess it's like Glorfindel - -

**PT**: So it's good?

**MB**: - - or the ringwraiths - -

**PT**: So it's bad?

**MB**: I don't know. It's just in two worlds at the same time. Or no - - it's just in one world . . . some sort of world that is a web. I may have fallen asleep after that.

**PT**: Now all I can picture is Glorfindel and the wraiths dangling from a big spiderweb. I'm confused.

**Samwise Gamgee**: _I'm_ confused about the Dead Faces.

**MB**: The what?

**SG**: You know, that book of faces Lady Galadriel was talking about . . . it reminded me of the Dead Marshes, and I can't remember . . . what _was_ it? The Dead Book? The Face Marshes?

**PT**: Does the Cyber live there?

**GtW**: That does it. One more word, my fine hobbits, and you shall see Gandalf the Gr-White uncloaked.

_-Gandalf has forgotten that he's forgotten his cloak, hehe!_

_-Stop scribbling at me, Frodo, and keep your mind on your work._

**THNMGAT, etc**.: I should rather take the example of Gollum stalking Frodo and Sam, or the Nazgul stalking the Fellowship, for there you shall find more than enough creepiness. Or simply recall the story of my life: for I am Agarwaen son of Umarth, and I know what is creepy.

**BsB**: I refuse to be named in the company of Gollum and the Nazgul. Their purposes were evil. But Luthien appeared to me as a light in the midst of uttermost darkness. Who, if he were blind in the dark, would not seek light?

**T . . . oh, confusticate and bebother this, etc**.: He would probably not catch hold of the light and kiss it, though.

**BsB**: I am merely saying that what I did was no creepier than Thorin's company seeking to find the elves and beg them for food.

**Thranduil**: Creepy as a creeping vine, then.

**DtM** (singing): He stalked her ever, wandering far . . .

**LG**: Perhaps you have some insight to share with us, Daeron?

**DtM**: Nay, lady, let Camlost speak. Let him remind us what he did when, at last, he was no longer restrained by enchantment. Tell us, mortal, does the Bloodstained, son of Ill-fate, speak aright?

**BsB**: Tell us yourself, since doubtless you were peering from the foliage. In truth, Lady Galadriel, I am amazed your students did not wish to question Daeron, who to his other myriad accomplishments can add sneaking and spying.

**LG**: I counsel you both to tread carefully, lest you earn a failing grade - - which I can give to you, Beren, even though you are not part of this class.

**BsB**: Failure you can give me, my lady, earned or unearned. But these names I will not take of Daeron or anyone else: _stalker_ and _creepy_.

**Luthien Tinuviel** (appearing out of nowhere): I will take them.

**BsB**: Luthien! What do you mean?

**LT**: I followed you to Tol-in-Gaurhoth and demolished Sauron's fortress to find you. I refused to go home when you wished me to stay in safety. When you departed to face Morgoth alone, I pleaded with Huan until he set me upon your trail. Even after you had perished and gone beyond the Sundering Seas, I would not let you escape. I throw myself upon your mercy, Lady Galadriel, for I am a stalker.

**BsB**: Indeed you are not!

**LT**: And I was creepy, too.

**BsB**: You were the furthest thing from it! . . . Well, except perhaps when you were clothed with the bat-fell of Thuringwethil . . .

**LT**: And I am not sorry for what I did.

**Finrod Felagund**: Well, Beren, what will you advise your readers now?

**Legolas Greenleaf** (also appearing out of nowhere): What readers? What are you all discussing?

* * *

Here ends the transcription, for Bilbo, in a stroke of evil genius, seized a chair and clambered on top of it.

"They are about to listen to my newest poem," he announced. "It explains some of the more obscure and intricate branches of the Baggins, Took, and Brandybuck genealogies, with a slightly irrelevant ode in praise of mushrooms. Will you not join us?"

"Thank you, but I was just passing this way," said Legolas. "I must go and see what the wind and sky are doing."

"What do you expect them to be doing?" shouted Gimli. But it was too late: Legolas had already turned away, not quite soon enough to hide the grin on his face.

"Well," said Bilbo, "as long as you're all here . . ."

Sometime during the extended metaphor comparing mushrooms to Silmarils, I remembered my foolish belief that this step would be the least trouble of all. What could be simpler than persistence?

But now I must add this: if you are going to be persistent, don't be creepy about it.

Whatever that means.


	7. Step Five: Avoid These Tragic Mistakes

A/N: I said to my brain, "Write a parody of _Eärendil the Mariner_!" And it replied, "I am touched by your naive confidence, but . . . LOL."

This is one of those times I could write about ten disclaimers, but I'll just stick with one for now: in several sections of this chapter (they will be all too obvious), I have committed the literary equivalent of chopping apart the Bayeux Tapestry and piecing it back together with additions from old beach towels. I do not own a single line of the Bayeux Tapestry. The beach towels are all mine.

Actually, here's another: for some reason, I'm finding it impossible to get the paragraph breaks to work correctly when I try uploading this chapter. I'm not sure what's wrong, but something eats the paragraphs between poetic stanzas, and they all run together no matter what I do. So I apologize for the confusion. Hopefully I'll be able to fix this later on.

* * *

Step Five: Avoid These Tragic Mistakes

Lady Galadriel has chosen her punishment well. Instead of failing me in Mortal Psychology, she imprisoned me with Daeron in the Hall of Fire, commanding us to stay until we have written this chapter together. If she disapproves of our work, we must write it again.

The task began as smoothly as you might expect: Daeron was in a fey mood, demanding we write entirely in verse, and no argument would move him. I was about to offer some remarks for his edification when Gimli appeared, along with his axe, informing us he was here to stay as long as we were. ("So hurry up, because I've better things to do than be a nursemaid.")

Therefore, we will take turns giving advice in poetic form. I must beg your pardon. Daeron, have you finished reading the outline?

_Yes, and I confess myself amazed. What sort of people are these, that they must be cautioned against falling in love with their cousins and slaying their spouses by accident? Has the race of Men fallen so far? _

_On second thought, I am not amazed at all. _

You forget that most of the deeds we will discuss were committed by elves. Besides, if people are foolish enough to fall in love with an elf in the first place, what else might they not do

_Indeed. Here is your prologue._

* * *

_Now hearken, ye wise, for I'll sing to you songs_

_Of unfortunate [_crossed out_: Men] [_crossed out_: Elves] folks who went terribly wrong,_

_Thereby losing their love (sometimes other things, too),_

_Even though they were fairer and greater than you._

_So take heed to their faults, lest your hope be undone,_

_And if this is confusing, return to Step One._

* * *

"Folks"? Since when did you begin using obscure colloquialisms?

_Since I was forced to address a congregation of murderers, traitors, kidnappers, and committers of incest, whilst being harried by my worst enemy and threatened by a dwarf with an axe._

That's hardly an excuse. I once wrote a song whilst anticipating my imminent death.

_Well, you always had a gift for the melodramatic._

* * *

Do Not Attempt to Discover the Line between Courtship and Abduction

Eöl mistrusted elvenkings

(Of him the harpers seldom sing);

His secret halls were shadowy

In Nan Elmoth beneath the trees.

His sight was long, his gaze was keen;

When Aredhel afar was seen

With all enchantments he could wield,

He hedged her in, till she would yield.

But long ago she rode away

And if she loved him, none can say;

For slaying her, they cast him far

From Caragdûr, where boulders are.

* * *

_Why are my ears bleeding? Could it be the hideous awkwardness of the closing lines?_

You know how Eöl's story ended - - I did not intend to make it pretty.

_You certainly succeeded. Now my eyes are bleeding, too._

* * *

You Can't Control Being the Object of the Dark Lord's Personal Quest for Vengeance, but You Can (Sort of) Control What You Do About It

_Don't look when a dragon's eyes glitter,_

_Don't wed if your memory's lost,_

_Don't listen to creatures who slither,_

_Ignore an elf-maid at your cost._

_Beware of a foolish word spoken_

_Lest doom from the shadows should spring:_

_The treacherous blade shall be broken,_

_The crownless shall never be king._

* * *

Beware the onset of elvish senility. Haven't you left out a bit?

_Well, since we weren't provided with a barrel of ink, I thought it best to summarize._

* * *

Avoid Any Deed Celegorm Fëanorion Ever Performed in the Whole of His Wretched Existence, Including, but Not Limited to, the Following

Tyelkormo was a miscreant

That visited in Nargothrond;

He swore an oath with Fëanor

In Valinor: to journey on,

Pursuing, to the end of days,

With hatred and relentless will

Demon or Vala, Elf or Man,

Who dared to keep a Silmaril.

In panoply of elvish lords,

With bow and horn he armored him;

His speech was of such potency

To be a very charm for him;

His face was lit with flaming eyes;

His after-name came from his hair,

(Perchance his features, some surmise;

Alas, I neither know nor care.)

Huan, his hound, was valiant,

Full arrogant his bearing tall,

His helmet bore a crimson plume,

Upon him doom was terrible.

Beneath the moon and under star

He hunted far, till caught in bands:

Enchanted by the fairest face

Beyond the grace of mortal lands.

From Doriath to Sauron's Isle,

A place defiled and shadow-filled,

On feet as light as linden leaves

She went as one bereaved, until

Tinúviel was led astray:

He promised aid, revealing not

The news of Finrod's flight he saw,

Nor that the living light he sought.

For craftiness came driving him

That he with Lúthien should wed;

He bade her wait awhile and rest,

And from the quest they homeward sped.

Yet out of Nargothrond she passed

And met at last her love once more,

But Celegorm was mocked in lays

Of after days, in tales of lore.

For on him dreadful doom was laid

Till moon should fade in Eldamar:

To hear the laughter evermore

From hither shores where mortals are;

For ever still a herald of

A parody that shall never rest,

To hear his title noised afar:

The laughingstock of Elvenesse.

* * *

_How is this terrible? Let me count the ways. The rhyme scheme is inconsistent. The meter is imperfect._ _The wording is clumsy. You probably cannot even pronounce Tyelkormo correctly. There are too many occurrences of approximate rhyme. You failed to mention the episode when Celegorm nearly trampled you with his horse, which is not only a tragic courtship mistake, but also my favorite part of the story. _

If you're going to swoon in horror, I wish you would get it over with. Your list is longer than the poem itself.

_I will not fail Mortal Psychology because of you!_

I know.

* * *

Do Not Fall in Love with Your Relatives, Especially if the Dark Lord Approves

_What more is there to be said? I cannot write a poem about Maeglin. The very idea is even more sickening than the usual torture of this woe-begotten project._

I have every confidence in you. Cheat us not with your humility, O deathless bard of deathless renown, whose melodies are of such surpassing sweetness that they move Morgoth to fill the Void with his tears . . .

_Enough!_

_There once was an elf called Sharp Glance_

_Who had awkward ideas of romance. _

_Aiding Gondolin's fall,_

_He was chucked off the wall_

_By the seat of his treasonous pants._

* * *

. . .

_I know. Let us not discuss it._

If you would an elf-maid pursue

Do not seek Morgoth's counsel to woo:

He will have his desire

While you fly through the fire

And turn into a puddle of goo.

_?_

Well, it looked like fun.

* * *

Betraying Your Beloved Will Not Remove You from the Friend Zone - - Not Even If You Try It Twice

_Oh no, you don't. This poem is mine._

But it is my turn. And this is my book. My own. My precious . . . more or less.

_Well, this is _my _tragic_ _mistake_, _and_ _I shall interpret it - - unless you want to lose your other hand._

_Farewell, sweet harp and dancing pipe,_

_For ever blessed, since they and I_

_Fair music made the fairest one_

_Beneath the moon, beneath the sun:_

_Lúthien Tinúviel._

_Of treachery I will not tell;_

_Though she is gone and left the world_

_And though my fate from hers was hurled_

_Forgotten and bereft of bliss,_

_Yet were my treason good for this:_

_The woe, the loss, the villainy—_

_That Lúthien dwelt a time with me._

* * *

Now I see why you insisted on verse.

_This one is entitled "Poetic Justice."_

I would call it "The Sincerest Form of Flattery" if "Egregious Theft" were not more accurate.

_If I_ were _a thief, you would have no right to complain._

**What about "Give Me One Good Reason I Shouldn't Chop This Table in Half"? **

Because, Gimli, it would take us even longer if you did.

* * *

If You Leave Your Beloved Beyond the Sundering Seas, You Must Accept the Consequences/If You Do Not Accompany Your Beloved Beyond the Sundering Seas, You Must Accept the Consequences

Finrod:

When Laurelin and Telperion are withered, root and bough,

When Valinor is echoing with Curufinwë's vow,

When Middle-earth enchanted lies beneath the starlit air,

Come back with me! Come back with me, although this land is fair!

Amarië:

_When Mahtan's metal-craft is turned to bring forth helm and blade,_

_When tears unnumbered are a doom upon the Noldor laid,_

_When, from the quays of Alqualondë, slaughter fills the air,_

_I'll linger here, and will not come, because my land is fair!_

F: Why will you stay, and let me face the Grinding Ice alone?

_A: Why will you chase a curséd host into a land unknown?_

F: I follow where my kin will go, though longing for the West.

_A: Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is best!_

Finrod:

When I lie chained in starless night that follows sunless day,

When my companions, one by one, a werewolf comes to slay,

When I redeem the oath I swore, with loss and bitter pain,

I'll look for thee, and call to thee; I'll come to thee again!

For I shall take another road that leads into the West,

And far away will dwell with you where both our hearts may rest.

* * *

You're welcome, Finrod.

_You're welcome, Amarië._

By which I mean: I'm sorry, Finrod.

_And I, Amarië—deeply. We write from the depths of our ignorance. _

And it's none of our business.

_But we only wished to express, sweetly and genuinely, the fact that you both were rather dim._

No, we did not! We were hoping to appease Lady Galadriel in case she disapproved of the other poems. And we were trying to finish this miserable chapter before we missed dinner. So we collaborated.

_That alone should impress Galadriel. In fact, is the Dagor Dagorath upon us? Do I hear the Door of Night breaking?_

No - - it's Gimli bashing his helmet against the wall. Perhaps you should tell him we're finished.

In the meantime, I should like to thank Finduilas of Nargothrond for sharing the useful term "friend zone" and (even more) for not revealing where she discovered it; Isildur for repenting that he ever asked me not to be archaic and begging me to be so again; Bilbo and Fangorn for poetic inspiration; and our esteemed minstrel, Daeron of Doriath, for . . . for . .

for making my song look even better by comparison.

* * *

**Lady, the task is done, it seems;**

**You were too merciful, I deem,**

**For never have I, all my days,**

**Been witness to a worse display.**

**They fought, complained, and fought yet more,**

**And mangled songs they'd heard before;**

**At least they skipped our Dwarvish stuff,**

**A boon for which I'm glad enough.**

**Men are a plague on mental health;**

**There's nothing worse except an - - er - - ah - except - - myself.**

**Pray deal with them less tenderly**

**Next time. Regards,**

**G. s. o. G.**


End file.
